Nocturnes
by immajedibabe
Summary: Adults cry too, you know. A one-shot detailing Harry's thoughts 6 years after the war.


**A short little fic for Sept.1st. It made my roommate and I cry, so fair warning. Hope you enjoy! All the pairings are essentially canon. If the consistency of the story isn't correct, PM me about it and I'll change it. Thanks for reading, R&R!**

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Harry was tired. His emerald eyes reflected that feeling. He had worked all day, and he could have sworn that The Second Great Wizarding War was less stressful. That was not true obviously. He never wanted to see Voldemort again, as the nightmares had never truly gone away. They always crept in the back of his head, poking and prodding at his sanity. He pulled out his wand and apparated to his house, walking inside the dark home. Ginny had gone to her mom's house to eat dinner, and Harry had declined, having to work late. The house was chilly, no heat being on. He beat the snow off of his boots on the door frame and stepped inside. He closed the door, engulfed in the blue overtone of his home. The warm smell of Ginny's perfume was nowhere to be found, eluding him in the cold and damp house. He pushed his untidy black hair from his face, sighing heavily, saying nothing as he sat on the couch.

He was feeling strange today as he did not turn on the light or the heat. He simply stared at the unlit fireplace, staring at the ashes. He was almost amazed by the dark gray flakes surrounding the charred logs. He did not want to go outside and get more firewood. Therefore, he did not. He kicked his boots off and curled up on the cold couch. Then, the worst thing that could happen happened.

His mind thought back to Dumbledore, to all the people who had died in his name. He felt the pang of sorrow and guilt pound against his aching heart. He thought to his mother and father. He thought of Sirius. Dobby. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Colin. Snape. Not to mention the countless students he didn't know about. He was always the Boy Who Lived. Why? Especially when he had always been the boy who wanted to die. He never wanted that burden. He almost wished that Voldemort had achieved his goal that night, almost 23 years ago. He would much rather have opted out, rather than being the hero. He wished he could have stayed 'Just Harry'.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom, his black crew socks scuffing against the wooden floor. He flicked the switch to the bathroom, the pale fluorescent light washing him out. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were darker than they should have been, dark circles underneath them to accommodate. His lips were dry and chapped. His lower lip had split due to the winter chill drying out his lips. Harry's skin was pale and near translucent. He looked sickly, thin and lanky. He hadn't eaten much over the past 3 months, a few bits of food here and there. No one really noticed until last week.

He had been at the Weasley's house, and Molly had commented on how thin his was becoming. He had laughed and blamed it on the stress at work. Ron had given him an odd look at that, disbelieving of his excuse. Harry didn't mind. He wouldn't have believed himself either. He was a shitty liar to his friends. They always seemed to know. But, they didn't pry. They kept their distance now that they were grown, sending Christmas cards. They were like proper adults. However, Harry hadn't quite moved on. He still felt the every weighting grief of losing his friends press against his heart. He never got over their deaths, could never fathom getting over it either. Too much had happened for him to overcome the sorrow. Too many had died.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, continued to look in the mirror. He continued to see everything that had happened to him and his friends, the images flashing before his eyes. He saw the red eyes of Voldemort, an evil that he had killed. That evil, however, continued to gnaw at his soul, tearing every good thing away from him. He couldn't even be properly happy. He could only pray to whatever god he could find for some sort of relief. It never came, no matter how hard he hoped. Tears had welled in his green eyes, dripping down his cheeks. He was lost, a ship without a lighthouse. He could faintly hear the door open outside. He heard laughter and the shutting of the door.

The warm cinnamon smell that he knew so well drifted throughout the house, and it warmed him. He could hear her soft voice throughout the house, the sound evoking some sort of good emotion. She was home. He rushed out of the bathroom, looking half crazed. His bloodshot eyes, pallor skin, and untidy hair made him a frightening sight to the red headed woman in his living room. Her brown eyes widened for a bit, however, they softened.

"Harry..."

"Ginny," he half-sobbed. She walked towards him, and she hugged him. There were no more words at that moment. She simply held the 23 year old man round the waist. Everything clicked into place. This is why they had died. They had died to protect these moments. A wife holding her husband. A mother holding her child. A father playing catch with his son. Remus and Tonks died so that Teddy could live. Lily and James had died for his life. Fred had died for his family. He wanted them to live, even if it meant his death. They died so that their family could live.

As Ginny held him, he thought of all those who had died and their reasons. Then, everything didn't hurt so much. Tears streamed down his cheeks in realization. He openly sobbed, falling to his knees. Ginny went down with him as he sobbed. He buried his face into her shoulder, his loud cries deep and full of emotion. Ginny pet at his dark hair, a tear or two of her own falling down for Harry. Her voice was soft when she spoke, and it was almost like she knew why Harry was crying.

"We all feel grief, Harry. Adults cry too."


End file.
